


Foul Play

by MrsHyde (DasMervin)



Series: Strange Bedfellows [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Once Upon a Time in Mexico (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Begging, Blow Jobs, Competition, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Dirty Talk, Dominance, Drunk Sex, Explicit Language, Frenemies, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Slash, Snape Lives, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:51:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/MrsHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape. Sands. Whiskey. Tequila. Sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foul Play

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah...this is just us shamelessly indulging a few kinks and using the boys to do it. So...it’s smut. We lie to ourselves that there’s a character study somewhere in there, but we all know we’re just in it for the porn.

Snape had no idea how Sands could stomach tequila.

He’d been living in Mexico for twelve years, and in all that time, he’d never developed a taste for it. It was like drinking kerosene.

He paid Fernando to keep him in Firewhisky, aged in the keg, just as he kept him in boomslang skin and horned slugs. But Sands always drank that Mexican swill, even as he was now, sucking away at that bottle like a baby.

It was nauseating, and Snape told him so at every opportunity. He supposed only something that foul could properly go with that pork slop Sands was so enamoured of.

Sands himself was moderately fond of Snape’s preferred Firewhisky—only on special occasions, though, he said. He often described it as “like a swift kick in the balls by a unicorn wearing gold horseshoes,” (which was ridiculous—cloven-hoofed animals didn’t wear shoes, but Sands only laughed when he told him that and called him a girl for knowing about unicorns) and as such, was not something he wanted to drink regularly. Snape asked how on earth that was any worse than pouring that motor oil down his throat; Sands had just given him a very ugly grin and said that it kept him all nice and lubed up.

Snape had left in disgust.

Tonight he really hadn’t been paying much attention to Sands’s beverage of choice; they weren’t drinking heavily (which was always conducive to mutual abuse), but were rather simply having a quiet drink together, and speaking, by its very nature, ruined that.

Trust Sands to be the one to do it.

He tipped back his bottle, polishing it off, and then leaned back in his chair and belched quietly. “That hits the spot,” he remarked into the silence, waving the bottle in Snape’s general direction.

“What spot—your crankshaft?” Snape asked dryly.

Sands’s head lolled back and he grinned. “You’d better believe it.”

_Oh, for the love of Merlin._ “Shut it,” he growled, but Sands only laughed. “Is revelling in childish innuendo that most of us forwent by the age of eighteen your only pleasure in life?” Snape demanded.

“Not the only one,” Sands drawled, “but definitely one of my favourites.”

Snape snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”

Sands burrowed his bum deeper in his cushions. “What’s yours? Sucking all the pleasure _out_ of life?”

It was only by sheer force of will that Snape did not stoop to his level (not to mention completely undermine his own insult) and throw the word “sucking” right back in his face; instead, he simply said, “Some of us have different ideas of what constitutes enjoyment.” Snape sipped his whisky. “Acting like a brainless adolescent just happens to be in direct opposition to my tastes.”

“And just what are your tastes, exactly? Terrorizing small children? Giving out detention?” A smug smile spread across Sands’s face. “Grading papers, maybe?”

Snape’s jaw tightened, and before he could think better of it, he said, “No—I enjoy reading.”

Sands’s smile took on a brittle quality. “I prefer singing, myself.”

They glared at each other across the coffee table. Snape always felt himself at a distinct and annoying disadvantage in these instances; he was quite proud of his own glare, which he had from several reliable sources was very formidable. But not only was it was lost on Sands, the eyeless stare Snape got in return never failed to unsettle him, although he would rather die than admit it.

But then Sands grinned, not his usual shit-eating grin, but a slow, sly expression that set off all sorts of warning bells in Snape’s mind. 

“You are an asshole,” Sands declared, and then got up. Snape shifted so that he could keep a weather eye on him, but he just made his way over to the kitchen to drop his now empty bottle in the bin. Then Sands leaned back against the doorframe, crossing his arms and regarding him with furrowed brows from across the room. “You know, I thought we’d made a real break-through with these mood issues of yours,” he said, his voice dripping with false concern.

Snape glowered into his glass. He knew exactly what that candy-arse was talking about, and he didn’t want to hear it. 

That didn’t stop Sands, of course. He sauntered around to his drinks cabinet behind Snape, who tensed slightly and marked his movement out of the corner of one eye, but refused to out-and-out watch him. Sands opened the door, took out a fresh bottle, and took one long pull on it before capping it and putting it back. Then he turned. “Sounds to me like you need some nerve medicine a little stronger than what you’re drinking,” he said. And then he swung down over Snape’s shoulder and started to rub his crotch.

Snape jumped and bit back a curse; dammit, one would think he would be used to Sands’s sneak attacks by now. He grabbed Sands’s wrist. “No.”

He could feel the gentle blow of Sands’s breath against his cheek, and he focused on that instead of the skilful fingers moving through the fabric of his trousers. “Oh, but you do, Snape,” he said, his voice ripe with self-satisfaction. “You always do, since you’re not getting any anywhere else.”

“Piss off, Sands,” he rumbled crossly. “I am in no mood for your little games.” But then Sands changed his grip and his own body betrayed him. _Dammit._

“Liar,” Sands murmured, and then bit his ear.

Snape swore under his breath and yanked Sands’s hand away, pushing the miserable bastard away from him; Sands stumbled but righted himself.

“You do know that you have a pole so far up your ass that it stirs your brains every time you fart, don’t you?” Sands asked huffily as he walked around Snape’s chair and back towards his own. 

Snape regarded him disdainfully. “And are you aware that you sulk like a petulant child when you don’t get your way?”

Sands was in front of him with surprising speed, dropping down to his eye level, his hands resting on the arms of Snape’s chair as he leaned down close enough to kiss. Snape pulled back; he could smell the tequila on his breath when Sands spoke. “Don’t be silly, fussybritches,” he purred, and Snape jerked in his seat against his will as Sands’s hand made its unerring way back to the front of his trousers. Sands’s tongue flicked out and wetted his lips, and the movement drew Snape’s eyes like a magnet. “You know I _always_ get my way.”

Snape ground his teeth, but even he knew that his efforts to stop Sands from opening his rather-too-tight flies were half-hearted at best, and he cursed inwardly at Sands’s knowing smirk as he dropped to the ground.

He didn’t say anything about it; he knew from experience that Sands was entirely unflappable when on his knees in front of him. Time and time again he’d tried that angle of attack, but Sands was Sands, and he took it in stride. Snape imagined he would never understand him; the man was impervious to insults against his masculinity, and yet would go completely out of his tree at the merest suggestion that he needed help crossing the street.

Sands pushed Snape’s knees apart and scooted forward before going about his business of releasing him from his uncomfortable fabric prison. “Not tonight, honey—I’m not in the mood,” he mocked as he pulled Snape’s half-hard prick out into the air. He looked up and asked dryly, “Are you on your period, or is this just the old headache excuse?”

“Get on with it, you bastard!” Snape barked, furiously crossing his arms and looking anywhere but at Sands.

Sands snorted with laughter. “Definitely your period,” he said, but then his hand began to move, and to Snape’s never-ending disgust, he was fully hard in an embarrassingly short amount of time. As usual.

“Round and ‘round the garden,” Sands chanted teasingly, tracing unpleasantly delightful little circular patterns over his skin with his finger. “Like a teddy bear. One step—” he lightly circled the tip with one finger, and Snape’s jaw clenched, “—two step—” he stroked the length of him with agonizing slowness, once, twice, “tickle you under there,” he finished, his hand cupping his balls, squeezing and rubbing, smirking up at Snape as if for approval.

Snape stared at him. “That was revolting,” he said flatly.

“You didn’t seem to mind it at the time,” Sands countered sharply, not smiling now and sounding vaguely affronted, which pleased Snape. But it didn’t last long, as that infuriating little smirk came back with aggravating speed, and then Sands licked his lips, slowly, deliberately, leaving a glossy sheet of saliva in their wake, and Snape could practically feel his cock twitching at the sight.

Sands leaned forward, and Snape was unable to keep himself from stiffening in anticipation, but Sands stopped short, leaving Snape tense and waiting. The soft huff of Sands’s measured breathing was warm on his flushed skin, and he _nuzzled_ at him, slowly running the tip of his pointed nose along his stiff cock. “I told you—my way or the highway,” he murmured, his moist lips brushing against him, and Snape swelled with ire, but whatever he had been planning to throw back in his face was wiped away by the sudden and swift sensation of Sands’s hot mouth enveloping his cock.

Snape hissed in surprise. Every time this happened, he told himself that he wasn’t going to let Sands sneak up on him like that, but every time he did. And it only that much more disgraceful given the fact that he so consistently caught off guard by a bloody _blind_ man.

Well—at least Sands wasn’t talking anymore.

Snape let his head fall back, trying to concentrate on the dingy brown water stain on the ceiling and not on the delicious sliding friction of Sands’s tongue and failing utterly.

He looked back down. Sands’s dark head was bobbing slowly up and down, his lips tight on Snape’s spit-slicked skin. The feathery ends of his long hair were dragging over his thighs and catching on the material of his trousers, and if he squinted Snape could almost imagine he was a woman.

At least, until Sands looked up, which he always did when Snape looked at him. He was blind, and yet the miserable little sod always seemed to just _know_ when Snape was watching him, and he would tilt his head up, and Snape would swear that Sands was _looking_ back at him from behind those blank black glasses. And then there would be that maddening curling at the corners of his lips, and he would _smirk_ up at him around Snape’s own prick, and it made him furious.

It was the pinnacle of effrontery that anyone could look so insufferably _smug_ while sucking cock.

And then Sands pulled away, replacing his mouth with his hand on the shaft and moving to dance over the tip with tiny, teasing flicks of his tongue, and Snape’s eyes fell shut of their own accord, and a long, slow breath escaped him.

_Dammit._

He thought he heard Sands snigger, and his eyes flew open in indignation, but then Sands was sucking him off again, and his throat closed up.

Sands took him deep, and Snape felt the rough caress of his tongue on the underside of his prick, all the way down to his tightening balls, and he involuntarily gave a thick, satisfied grunt.

Sands was _very_ good at this. And it was utterly infuriating. Not only was he good, but he had caught on to exactly what Snape liked with shocking speed, and now every time this happened, he would mouth off with impunity, because just as Snape got ready to let loose with a torrent of invective against the grotty little waster, Sands would do something to make him lose his reason entirely. And what made it all the more intolerable was that he was so bloody _good_.

Why wasn’t a _woman_ ever this good?

_Probably because you never had one stick around long enough to find out how you liked it_ , came a nasty voice in his head, the disagreeably familiar one that still sounded the way he used to sound and was always ready with a disparaging remark, and he scowled at nothing as his hips began to rock against Sands’s sucking mouth.

Sands _hmmed_ quietly to himself, and that felt good too, dammit, and then he pulled his mouth off of him with a pop, and Snape braced himself, because he knew Sands was going to start _talking_ ; he could never go any length of time without hearing himself talk. And it was worst when they were like this, because nothing Snape could say would ruffle him in the slightest, but anything Sands said was virtually guaranteed to enrage him. 

No matter what he said, Snape was _not_ going to let the wretched little cock-knocker get the better of him this time.

Sands was grinning slyly up at him, his lips slick and shiny. “So,” he asked conversationally, working Snape’s prick with his right hand again, his left obviously busy with himself. “For my own edification—did you ever give after-hour oral exams to your students so they could improve their grades?”

Snape blinked, nonplussed, until the fog in his head cleared enough for Sands’s meaning to penetrate, and his mouth fell open in outrage.

Oh, that was _it_. That was the absolute fucking _limit_ , and the little piss artist was going to get it—

But then Sands swallowed him down, his lips tight, his tongue twisting, his mouth working furiously, sucking, sucking, _sucking_ , and all that emerged from Snape was a helpless groan.

_Dammit._

And he wasn’t stopping this time, no, and it was _so_ good, so _fucking good_ , oh, and he was _so close_ —

And Sands stopped cold.

Snape, on the other hand, couldn’t stop the desperate moan that wrung itself from his throat, and he hated himself for it, but he hated Sands more.

He knew what he was doing, knew what Sands wanted—he wanted to make him _beg_ , he always wanted to hear him beg, and every time Snape swore he wouldn’t, but he knew he was fooling himself, because every time he did.

“Close?” Sands asked, touching him again, but only with his fingertips.

“Yes,” Snape ground out, angry and uncomfortable.

Sands’s lips closed over him, just the tip, and he sucked at it with an almost thoughtful expression, swirling his tongue as if ‘round an ice cream, and then he pulled back again, and Snape hissed in frustration.

Sands chuckled. “You like the way I do it, don’t you?”

Snape refused to answer, gritting his teeth as Sands brushed tiny little licks all along on the underside of his cock.

“You do. You love the way I suck your cock,” he crooned.

He _loved_ dirty talk.

_Dammit._

Sands roughly swiped the tip of his prick with his tongue, and Snape trembled. “Say it,” Sands demanded. “You like it.” Another swipe. “ _Say it._ ”

Snape’s fingers curled, his knuckles white on the arms of his chair. “ _Yes_ ,” he rasped.

And Sands was smiling smugly up at him, but Snape didn’t care, because that _glorious_ mouth was back, and he was _going to_ —

He very nearly howled in agony when Sands pulled abruptly away again, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“You want to come, don’t you, bitch?” Sands asked nastily.

“ _Yes!_ ” Snape snarled, beyond caring.

“Oh, no—not good enough,” Sands said mercilessly. His grin was cold, predatory. “ _Tell_ me you want it.”

_No. He would_ not _._

Sands sucked him hard, once, and he shuddered beneath him. “Tell me you want it, Snape,” he demanded. His tongue was back. “ _Tell me._ ”

“I _want_ it, you bastard!”

“What do you want, Snape?” Sands asked, and he sucked him again, slow, and Snape groaned mindlessly. “Do you want me to make you come?”

He nodded, helpless, desperate. Sands looked up, the light from the lamp above glaring white on the lenses of his sunglasses. “Say _please_.”

_He fucking well would_ not _._

But oh, his mouth felt so _good_ , so _hot_ — _and he stopped again!_

“ _Say it._ ”

“ _P—please!_ ”

Sands smiled benignly. “Ask, and ye shall receive.”

_Dammit._

And Sands was sucking, swallowing him whole, and his tongue was moving, and his mouth was so _wet_ , so _warm_ , and _fuck_!

He came loud, with an inarticulate noise bayed to the ceiling, and he came hard, arching back in his chair and thrusting his hips forward. And Sands was still _going_ , still _sucking_ , and oh, _God_!

And then he went limp. Collapsed in his chair, panting.

His cock slipped wetly out from Sands’s mouth to flop against the material of his shirt. Sands rocked back on his heels; his lips were wet, and a glistening trail of come was trickling from the corner of his mouth. And then he looked up, looked right at Snape, and his tongue darted out and lapped it up.

And he _grinned_.

_Dammit._

“See where good manners will get you?” Sands asked.

Snape was halfway through his swing, with every intention of wiping that smirk off his face with his fist when Sands abruptly stood up, and Snape found himself in the disconcerting position of being eye-to-eye with Sands’s cock. 

Somewhere in the previous furore Sands had clearly let himself loose from his own trousers (as he invariably got off on humiliating Snape, the ponce), and now was flogging his tool right in Snape’s face. 

His mouth twisted and he turned away; Sands would undoubtedly want Snape to get him off now, and he hated that.

“Your turn.”

Snape looked up, vaguely alarmed—there was something in his tone that Snape didn’t like one bit, and one glance at his predatory expression told him that Sands wasn’t talking about just helping him off, no—he meant that it was _his turn_.

“Absolutely not!” Snape growled, standing up, pushing Sands roughly away from him and righting his clothes with as much dignity as he could muster, given both the circumstances and his haste to do so.

Sands hadn’t moved much from where he stood, and was still standing very close, just barely brushing his chin against Snape’s shoulder and poking him in the side with his cock. “I don’t see why not.”

With an angry growl, Snape shoved him away. “You don’t _see_ anything!” he said spitefully. “You obviously can’t see that _you’re_ the shirtlifter here, not me!”

Sands just clucked his tongue behind his teeth. “I thought I’d made it more than clear to you that I am nothing of the kind,” he admonished, flopping back in his chair and wanking merrily away.

“Your little performance would dictate otherwise,” said Snape coldly.

“So would yours.”

Snape ground his teeth but had nothing to say. Sands was smiling lazily up at him, still beating his meat just as shamelessly as you please.

“ _No_ , Sands,” Snape said.

“Coward.”

His back stiffened, and it took every ounce of willpower he had not to simply hex Sands’s balls off right now. “I am _not_ a coward,” he said slowly through clenched teeth.

Sands’s eyebrows lifted behind his sunglasses. “Prove it.” He waved his tackle at him obscenely. “Come on over here, douchebag, and let’s see if you take it like a man.”

Snape stood stock-still in the middle of the room, rigid, as Sands looked at him expectantly.

When he didn’t move, Sands’s lip curled with something like amused contempt. “Pussy.”

In three steps Snape was in front of him, hauling him up to his face by the collar. “Shut _up_ , Sands!” he snarled, incensed, shaking him roughly.

Sands just made a kissing face up at him. “You can’t take it,” he said, grinning, mocking. “A _real_ man can—only one who’s afraid he really _is_ a flaming faggot won’t.”

Staring at him, having no answer, Snape held up aloft for a moment more, and then simply threw him back down in his seat, leaned over, and grabbed Sands’s dick and squeezed.

Sands inhaled sharply, twitching a little beneath his grip, but he held his ground as Snape hissed, “You are hardly in a position to be dictating terms!”

“I’m in _my_ position,” he retorted. “Now you get in yours,” he said, his voice full of arrogant cajolery, and he pointed to the space on the floor between his sprawled legs.

Dear God, how he _hated_ that fucker.

But after a moment, he dropped to his knees.

He glared pointlessly down at Sands’s engorged prick before resignedly spitting in his palm and curling his fingers around it. He knew from experience (God help him) that Sands liked it rough, and so it was with a mixture of anger and acceptance that he went at it with a series of short, sharp tugs.

With a happy little sigh, Sands settled back down into his chair. Snape scowled down at his rapidly moving hand. Could he get any lower than this?

Sands raised his eyebrows. “I’m waiting.”

Yes, he could.

_Dammit._

His hand slowed and he adjusted his grip, eyeing his opponent. It was ridiculous, all pink and fleshy and puffed up and _leaking_.

He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

Snape shifted uncomfortably, involuntarily casting a wary eye around the room, before he leaned apprehensively down and quickly ran a rough lick along the underside of the cock in his hand.

Sands made a small noise of satisfaction; Snape just sat where he was, perfectly still, utterly appalled by what he had just done.

Against his will his eyes cut upwards to find Sands smirking down at him.

A muscle in his jaw tensed, and before he could think too much about it, he ran his tongue out again, dragging it over the swollen head of Sands’s dick.

He grimaced as he tasted the sour, salty wetness under his tongue and pulled away. Scowling, he resumed wanking Sands off, anything to put off any more.

Sands chuckled, and Snape’s fingers flexed, wishing very much that he was holding his wand. Sands just leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. “I can wait here all night,” he said complacently.

Snape bit the inside of his cheek to keep from delivering a retort; he got himself into his situation, and so he was just going to have to get himself out of it. As quickly as possible.

He steeled himself, took a deep breath, and cast one last baleful eye up at the sorry sack of shit in the chair above him, before leaning down and taking Sands’s cock in his mouth.

The only good thing was that he actually managed to surprise the useless tosspot, as was evident by his gasp and sudden jolt in his chair. Everything else was utterly intolerable.

Snape couldn’t even scowl properly around the thick length of flesh crammed down his throat. This was humiliating, not to mention uncomfortable, and downright disgusting. He couldn’t find anywhere to put his tongue without choking himself, and with his jaw hanging open like this, he was in imminent danger of _drooling_.

And then there was the immutable and incontrovertible fact that he had a _cock_ in his _mouth_.

He pulled himself off it, with no idea of what he was going to do or say beyond getting that thing away from him, and looked up to find Sands looking down at him, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He would be _damned_ if he was going to let that smug bastard get away with calling him a coward.

He bared his teeth, and then went back to work. Put Sands’s cock back in his mouth. Began to suck.

He just moved his head up and down, with no pretence of finesse. Served him right if he used his teeth, anyway. He found rather to his annoyance that he couldn’t go nearly as deep as Sands could without the irresistible urge to retch. Well, that was fine with him—he wasn’t about to try to deep-throat the miserable runt. Sands could just deal with it.

It smelled terrible down here, and his jaw was getting stiff. How on earth did Sands keep drawing it out for so long when it was him? Snape just wanted to be over with it.

Sands, true to form, couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Snape was now being treated to a steady stream of encouragements that might have sounded like endearments from anyone else, but from Sands were simply patronizing.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he murmured. “Just like that.” 

Snape felt Sands’s feminine little hands on the sides of his head, and he froze, not knowing what he was doing, but Sands just started threading his fingers through the short hair on the sides, moving gently, not pushing him anywhere at all.

Resuming his work, Snape tried to figure out what he was supposed to do with his tongue, feeling the odd combination of ineptitude and revulsion as he applied himself to the task at hand. Or “at mouth,” as it were.

Sands’s little fairy fingers were twirling lightly around his ears as he whispered maliciously about how well he was doing. When his fingertips moved and began to slide almost lovingly under his collar, Snape couldn’t stand it any more and sat up.

“Why do you have this bizarre fascination with my neck?” he demanded, determinedly not looking at Sands’s dick, glistening all over with his own saliva.

Sands just shrugged. “Forbidden fruit, my man. The lure of the unknown.” Then he grinned. “Why don’t I just keep doing what I was doing, and you keep doing what you were doing?”

Snape sneered at him, but resignedly went back to work.

Sands was now keeping his mouth shut, thankfully. The pillock must have guessed that if he kept talking, Snape was likely to forgo the whole thing and leave him hanging.

The velvety-rough head of Sands’s cock was bumping against the roof of his mouth, and he could feel the thin line of scar tissue where he’d been cut under his tongue. Sands’s hips were rocking gently, almost imperceptibly, his fingers curling beneath his collar, and Snape sucked harder and moved faster, hoping to get him close enough that he could finish him off with his hand and be done with it.

And suddenly, before he even realized what he was on about, Sands seized the sides of his head in a vice-like grip and rammed him down on his cock.

Snape tried to jerk back, but Sands held on, and thrust his hips forward, and his cock was jammed in his mouth, down his throat, and he fought and coughed and gagged around it but Sands didn’t let go, and a thick gush of salty bitterness filled his mouth, and then Sands released him so suddenly that Snape flew backwards and barely caught himself before landing on his arse, and then all he could do was cough and hack and choke, and he spat a thick gob of come out onto the floorboards.

Panting, he looked up—to find Sands regarding him with a serene smile and an expression of dreamy lassitude.

Snape blinked. “You fucking bastard,” he said softly.

Sands gave a tiny snort. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking a long, deep drag on it and blowing it out through his nose, before looking down at Snape and smiling idly at him, remarking, “I always knew you were a cocksucker.”

“Fuck you!” Snape snarled, and spat on the ground again before getting furiously to his feet.

Sands just laughed as Snape snatched up his long-since-forgotten glass from the table and washed his mouth out with the remaining whisky before storming towards the door.

“Bitch, please—you think _that_ was rough?” Sands crowed from across the room as he reached the door. “Just you wait until I do _fuck you_!”

Snape stopped, suffused with a sudden, remarkable calm. He turned on his heel, and drew his wand with a neat flick. The grin on Sands’s face faltered, and Snape slapped the tapered stick against his thigh. “No, Sands,” he said smoothly. “You wait until _I_ fuck _you_.”

And without another word he left, giving the door a very satisfactory slam right in Sands’s frozen face.


End file.
